The Cave of the Fish

It winds through sage,
cypresses, rock rose –
the drove road long

shared by goatherds
and fisherfolk. At noon
they’d retreat to a high cave,

seclude their wares
deep in its shade,
talk there, or doze.

Though some of them
had a whiff of the beast,
others a hint of brine,

the path below led home
for both, neither
more true nor more right.

Today I sit at the cave’s
cool mouth, halfway
through my life.

from The Tree House (Picador, 2004), Kathleen Jamie 2004, used by permission of the author and Macmillan Publishers.

Kathleen Jamie in the Poetry Store

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